


rest on your laurels

by NekoAisu



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Blood and Injury, Broken Voice, Canon-Typical Racism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dehumanization, Dehydration, Enemies to Friends, Fever, Gen, Hiding Medical Issues, Infection, Injury Recovery, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Minor Character Death, Multi, Non-consensual Healing, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Restraints, Vague Spoilers, Whumptober 2019, strangers to lovers to enemies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 10:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20872952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/NekoAisu
Summary: If K’hiri had to pick three things they hate most about Ul’dah, the first and most frustrating thing on that list would be the lack of a minimum wage.(Add to that a patient with a deathwish whose habits decimate their small supply of medical supplies and the typical anti-immigrant habits of those gold-blooded socialites that control Ul'dah to get a nearly murderous revolutionary and the next big thing all wrapped into one medic-gladiator duo.)





	rest on your laurels

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags! While this isn't gory or otherwise spooky in that regard, there are a lot of canon-typical topics that are not intended for the faint of heart!

If K’hiri had to pick three things they hate most about Ul’dah, the first and most frustrating thing on that list would be the lack of a minimum wage.

Four jobs and a couple temp gigs all piled together back to back ends up with a pile of  _ maybe  _ five hundred Gil at the end of the day. They’re lucky if they manage a couple thousand in a  _ week.  _ The place that pays most reliably is the coliseum, but K’hiri is decently sure it’s just because they’re on-call to help whenever someone gets stabbed in the dick. It’s a lucrative set of skills to have, that of their steady hands and clinical treatment, up until it all goes to shit.

“The Syndicate refuses your appeal for prisoner relocation.”

“You’re talking shite,” they spit, covered in blood up to the elbow after helping cauterize and bandage an executioner’s thigh. “He’ll die if they leave him in there. A tonic and a handful of potions only slow it. They will  _ not _ see him through that infection.”

The Brass Blade supervising their work on their new patient just shrugs. “A blessin’ to us all if ‘e did. Never seen a Seeker go mad like that, have ye?”

“I’ve seen many a lesser person pass away from greater injuries than these,” they mumble, “and it’s of no concern to you because you get a big. Fat. Coinpurse. Every week. On the dot.” They wipe the sweat from their patient’s back and turn him over, careful of the many yet-unbandaged lacerations and scrapes littering his body. They grimace at the state of his face. 

The Blade laughs when they make a valiant attempt at prying open another diluted potable, his self-produced cacophony coming to an abrupt stop when they simply snap the neck off the vial and upend the fizzing liquid over their pile of freshly sanitized bandages. The dried blood on their hands makes a mess of them, but it’s of little concern when the potable eats away at what it perceives as hurt until they are clean again. “Didn’t know a tiny thing like you had anger issues.”

“And you’ll soon find that there is a  _ lot  _ you do not know,” K’hiri snaps. “Get him a room. Communal is more than fine, but it cannot be a cell. If you fail, I can make sure to be a few minutes late to the emergency call where a revolutionary has cut off your ego.” They wrap the soaked bandages around every large injury until the prisoner is nearly more fabric than man. His wrists and neck had been rubbed raw and bleeding from time-roughened shackles. His rib cage and stomach a mess of old bruising. There are many more injuries they would prefer to not be aware of (like the obvious hand trauma that comes with shoving your fingers between the lock of a cell door and the latch out of desperation. They do not have any further supplies with which to treat the many other assorted injuries he sports. It is a blessing and a curse.

“I will return next shift to clean him again. If there will be no relocation, I may have to make it every bell until his fever breaks. More pay for me, less for you─the usual.”

They’re waved off by the Blade. “It isn’t in my pay to question Lolorito.”

“Maybe you should get another job, then,” they reply, shouldering their hastily packed apothecary bag and leaving. It’s an affront to good mercenaries everywhere that the Brass Blades attempt to play at being protectors. K’hiri understands why they do it—a fat pile of Gil  _ is  _ a great motivator—but by Azeyma’s gilded asscheeks are they terrible about it. It’s your job to stand around all day! Doing literally nothing of note! Where did they gain the right to be such  _ pricks  _ about being man-shaped leeches?!

They hurry through side streets and ignore the refugees spilling slowly into the alleyways to sleep until the sun rises again. They know their kindness is fault enough. A hunter who can’t kill, a warrior who would rather heal than break bones, a useless sort of paradox when put between all the others of their litter. Stopping to feed and soothe the many Ala Mhigans lining the streets would have them finally give up on pretenses and sign up for gladiatorial work to make ends meet. Bloodsport isn’t to their taste, but money is money. 

They sigh and trudge onward. 

Their home is a very loosely defined thing. It’s a lot less like  _ mine  _ and more an  _ ours _ sort of situation. Seven roommates and three pallets, a couple pillows, and a rickety desk they worry will fail to last past a couple more months packed into less than three hundred square fulms. It’s… cozy (if you’re into feeling like your bed is in a field hospital directly after the Calamity). They really,  _ really  _ want to buy an apartment so they can get out of there.

The lock on the door sticks when they fight with their key. The resultant scuffle has them beyond incensed by the time they manage to get in, close and lock the door again, and put down their bag. Despite the hour, most of their roommates aren’t there. They all work odd shifts often enough that rent is paid by piling all their coin together on the table and having K’hiri count and deliver it in the morning before their first shift at the alchemists’ guild. They shuffle over to the pitcher and cloths in the far corner and sit down on the floor. Picking up one of the long since stained washcloths, they get to work. Scrubbing off old blood is an unpleasant and tiring process, but they deal with it at home solely because, even with modern medical publications pointing toward sanitation tying in with increased survival rates, the Syndicate is too stingy about their overflowing coin to allow them use of one (1) basin of water while between patients. 

They finish washing up and set the used towel over the sill of their singular window. Picking their way between a few of their sleeping roommates, K’hiri settles down for sleep. 

Waking is an ache-filled affair. The pallet they’d curled up on is in desperate need of replacement, but it’s (barely) better than the floor. Mostly. If you prefer itchy piles of old dried grass covered by a threadbare sheet. They rise, grab their bag (stuffing in an extra shirt for good measure in the case another bloody disaster occurs), and head back out without a goodbye or breakfast. 

By the time they arrive back at the afflicted prisoner’s cell, it’s nearly half a bell after their morning shift starts. They’re ready to swear it’s all the fault of that uppity Blade not wanting to give them clearance to do their godsdamned job. They’re pleased to note that whatever bandage-destroying tendencies their patient was fabled to engage in had not struck while they were commuting. If anything, he hadn’t moved at  _ all.  _ Worrying. 

They check his pulse and attempt to ignore the heat radiating off his skin. It’s weak but steady. They check him for open wounds, hands skimming the pale expanse of his exposed skin clinically. The bandages are clean from the outside. They unwrap a few to check how things are healing with a delicate touch. The insides are not as pretty to look at. 

Where there had been large scabs and sections of sluggishly healing raw skin, a flush had begun creeping out from the edges of each, the surrounding area tender and hot to the touch. More infections. Just what they both need in this year of skyrocketing prices for basic medications. 

They rewrap what had been undone and carefully pour a more concentrated potable over each of the fabric-covered injuries. They stare at the empty hi-potion bottle and try not to grimace. An extra expense spared for a prisoner the Blades hate… they pray it will not come out of their paycheck. 

Ignoring the ever-watchful eyes of the Blade stationed at the cell door, they chill their hands and press them to his forehead and pulse point. It’s not strong thaumaturgy, not by any means, but it’s enough that he leans into their touch even while completely out of it from the fever. They stay there for a long moment before commenting, “I hope that transfer is coming along well.”

“The lord is considerin’ your proposal,” the Blade replies, chuckling. “The warden from last shift said somethin’ about you threatenin’ his virtue.”

“I threatened his  _ ego,”  _ K’hiri says, exasperated, “and Nald knows a man like that needs a good pruning.”

The Blade winces at the thought. “Why’re you worried about him? He dies, you're less busy. Aren’t all you immigrant types supposed to be lazy?” 

They pull out their coinpurse and shake it around as if to show off the complete lack of Gil inside it. “Ever worked four jobs and shared a room with an entire family because you aren’t being paid enough to afford food, much less a  _ house?”  _ They put their purse away and glare at the Blade when they try to suggest saving (as if they can do that when it’s hard enough to cover rent with seven other people paying into it as well). “Oh, shut it, will you? Get him a transfer and you never have to see me again. You get rid of your local disease-mongering immigrant and most hated prisoner in one go. More disposable income! Less anxiety! Sounds good, doesn’t it?” 

They ignore the sharp response their criticism gets in response to worry over the state of the prisoner’s hair. Leaving it as is would guarantee ticks and lice, if not a whole slew of other afflictions, but they refuse to cut off any hair when a patient is incapacitated. They’re bleeding out and their hair is in the way? Too bad so sad, all of that is going to be chopped right off to save a life. While the prisoner is in a dangerous situation, it’s not one that would warrant emergency hair cuts. Staring down at the mess of red curls they’d pulled back with a strip of cloth, they wonder if it’s too late to cite the extensive knots and snarls as matting to save him the pain of brushing it out.

The idea of putting a shirt on their patient is a tempting one, cold as Ul’dahn nights can be, but they use the spare they brought along to wash the smaller injuries instead. The washcloths provided are less than clean and far too rough to be safe for use around stitches and sutures. K’hiri wipes his face down and bites their tongue to keep from questioning  _ what,  _ exactly, made such pronounced bruising along his cheeks and nose, the purplish skin partially concealed by thick scabs and a layer of numbing poultice they’d applied nearly a day prior. He would be handsome if not for the scarring that’s sure to follow, they think, with such a well-defined jawline and equally proportioned face. A shame, really. 

They finish their check-up and move on to the next patient. Then, a Blade who had been injured in a scuffle (the whos and whys are never answered on that one, but they know it was less than lawful business). Another prisoner of some crime or another. Back to the hated one for a new round of bandages and some attempt at getting him lucid. 

“Wake up, will you,” they mumble while redressing his hands. “I do not have  _ time  _ for this─” And the body under their hands startles, chest rattling with a choked growl. “Oh. That was ridiculously convenient. Good to see you awake.”

The prisoner rasps some semblance of speech and K’hiri scoots back to grab the yet untouched basin. They hold up the small wooden cup they’d left floating within it in offering. They get an affronted rasp and half a cough in response. 

“You need it.”

He looks away from them and shudders at how it pulls at the stitches running up his shoulder. They offer the cup again. He refuses it again. 

They stand from his bedside, feeling their knees pop after so much time spent kneeling, and say, “Last time you’ll be offered.”

He closes his eyes and ignores them. 

“Well, I did warn you,” K’hiri says, exasperation obvious in how they flippantly drink down what was meant for the prisoner, a couple drops not quite making it and slipping down the sides of their mouth. “Dehydration isn’t too comfortable a death.”

He does not open his eyes, but the hitch in his breathing is telling of anxiety. 

“You  _ sure  _ you don’t want any water?” They scoop up a little more and slosh it around. The prisoner’s eyes follow the cup and she can see him struggle to swallow. “I can force it, but I would greatly prefer not to. My job is to keep inmates alive, not happy.”

Ignoring the obvious fury radiating from their charge at the thought of being forced to drink, they offer the cup one last time. He opens his mouth the barest amount and they move to sit behind him and prop him up slowly, carefully until his head is just high enough that the chances of him choking are less than guaranteed. He attempts to take the cup from them and freezes when it makes his fingers feel like there are firecrackers in his bones. K’hiri soothes him with an arm bracing his back and quiet warnings. 

_ “Breathe through it. You’re in bad shape and even worse company. The Blades will not care if you have broken fingers and a dislocation. Hush.” _

They hold the cup up to his lips and let the water trickle into his mouth slowly. They get through a quarter of the cup before he coughs again, wheezing and sputtering when it doesn’t go down quite right. “...stop.”

“You have a voice. Wow,” they say, blinking a few times. “It’s lower than I thought. Got a name, too?”

He attempts to speak again and it comes out as a rasp. They help him through a bit more water before he tries again. “Sahr.”

K’hiri asks, “Sahr?”

He tries again. “Szah… Ah-ir.”

“I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me,” they inform, “and I will assume you can’t pronounce it. I’m K’hiri.”

“‘Iri.”

They shrug. “Good enough for me. Want any more?”

He accepts and they help him work through the remnants left in the cup. He will not speak unless spoken to, but they get the feeling it’s less a matter of the Blades being their usual selves and more along the lines of the swollen throat he must be working through. They give him a full examination and help him lay back down, promising to be back in a few bells so he can sleep (as if he hadn’t been dead to the world for half a week already). 

They stand by the exit of his cell and wait for the Blade on duty to unlock it so they can head out. It takes a good bit longer than it should, but they’re happy enough to be out and back on schedule when it allows them to chew out the head of inmate housing. 

“You said he was  _ hurt _ , not malnourished and running a fever to rival an Ul’dahn summer! I refuse to give treatment in a cell that will ensure his death. He needs to be kept in the infirmary.” They pick through the rations set aside for each prison block with a frown. “The food will do  _ all  _ of them in at some point, as it is.”

“Best we can do with the budget,” she argues, “and you  _ know  _ that General Aldynn is down here, too. If us holding him for some crime isn’t grounds enough for better funding, we’ll likely never get it.” 

K’hiri grumbles, tearing through jerky to take out their anger rather than become more snappish.  _ “Make  _ it happen, Sesalo, or tell me how I can do it myself. He isn’t nearly healthy enough to run a few amateur matches, but he  _ could  _ be and then our problems would be solved. Gladiatorial work pays an arm and a leg if it doesn’t take them from you first.” They chew in fits and starts, picking bits from between their teeth whenever something gets wedged where it should not be. 

“I’ll  _ try,”  _ she answers. 

K’hiri grumbles. 

The Lalafell laughs and pats them on the back. “He’ll be fine. You’re the first medic we’ve had who actually  _ cares.” _

“Your last hire was a hack,” they point out, speaking around the meat in their mouth.

“Okay, break is over! Back to work with you!”

It takes a week to get a transfer and even that is a mess of falsified records and forged signatures. “You’re going to be a gladiator.”

Z’ahir─as they had learned his name to be once the sore throat had begun to heal up─blinks slowly at them, purposefully uncomprehending.

“Oh, come  _ on,”  _ they cry, “you aren’t even excited! This means you get a room! Finally! It took me  _ so many favors  _ to get this done for you and─”

“I don’t want it.”

K’hiri stops. Stares. Narrows their eyes and glares. “Oh, no, you don’t. There is only room for one idiot here and that is  _ me.  _ You’re not allowed to be self-destructive because you’re afraid of your sentence. You committed a crime, at least according to the Syndicate, and it’s up to you to see it through.”

“I didn’t,” he spits, “and they threw me in here to keep me  _ silent.  _ You’re the first one who hasn’t shoved me into a muzzle this past year and it’s just because you don’t care about their politics.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” they say arily, flicking through a few sheets of parchment. Z’ahir growls low in his chest and they do not even look up to see him fume. 

He flexes his hands (mostly healed, no thanks to his apparent need to undo all their work the moment they leave) and rips the papers from their grip, crumpling them and tossing them into the chamberpot, before acting smug about it. “You don’t need to be afraid. Angry is good enough.”

K’hiri pulls more parchment out of their bag and reviews it. Z’ahir snatches it for a second time. “That was your withdrawal paperwork,” they say, voice even if not amused when he freezes and stares at the piss-soaked pages in messily disguised panic. 

“Get more.”

“I’m afraid I can’t. The coliseum is  _ very  _ specific about when things need to be turned in and your first match is in two weeks. To get the papers again would be a three day wait at the least, then I would have to wait until my next shift, have you sign all of it, and turn it in for review. Then, it would be a waiting game of whether or not it will be seen before the five day cut-off.”

Z’ahir lays down and turns toward the wall. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” K’hiri says, dismissive, “that’s what they all say.”

He pulls at the bandages still wrapped around his shoulder as if to unravel them. “I mean it.”

“I know.” They pull his arms above his head in preparation for a night unsupervised. Z’ahir struggles, but it’s a token effort. Months of being kept tightly restrained combined with the aftermath of a high fever has left him weakened to the point that they can manhandle him with relative ease. “You might find that I am a hell of a lot more pleasant when patients stop trying to  _ die.”  _

They pick up their bag, check the bandages wound around his wrists to make sure they’d prove a thick enough buffer, and wave. Self-destructive idiot or not, they have work to do and whatever Z’ahir chooses to do while they aren’t there to manage his impulses and penchant for injury is none of their concern until they clock in again in the morning. 

They sleep soundly. 

**Author's Note:**

> packige,,,,, where is comment email packige,,,,
> 
> hmu on:  
tunglr | https://riot-blade.tumblr.com/  
twitter | https://twitter.com/FlamingAceKiri  
discord | https://discord.gg/NCdmRHf


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